


dark and tasteless

by kinneyb



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Curse Breaking, Curses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25807909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: He turned, jaw clenching at the sight of Jaskier with a book in his hand. It was old with a decaying spine, split and worn.“A mage?” Jaskier asked innocently, blinking owlishly. “For what?”Geralt stepped forward. “Put that down,” he said steadily, and Jaskier placed it back on top of the nearest pile. “Trolls have a tendency to curse the items they get,” he explained. Jaskier slowly blinked again before glancing at the book, smiling sheepishly.“Oh.” He turned back to Geralt. “What are the chances this troll was a little incompetent?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 440





	dark and tasteless

**Author's Note:**

> written for one of my supporters! i hope y'all enjoy <3
> 
> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

“So many things,” Jaskier said, glancing around at the piles and piles of junk. He hadn’t even realized the underside of the bridge would be so big. 

Geralt walked around, idly poking at stuff with the tip of his sword. “A lot of it is of value,” he said, letting his sword drop. “We should get a mage here, and—”

He turned, jaw clenching at the sight of Jaskier with a book in his hand. It was old with a decaying spine, split and worn.

“A mage?” Jaskier asked innocently, blinking owlishly. “For what?”

Geralt stepped forward. “Put that down,” he said steadily, and Jaskier placed it back on top of the nearest pile. “Trolls have a tendency to _curse_ the items they get,” he explained. Jaskier slowly blinked again before glancing at the book, smiling sheepishly.

“Oh.” He turned back to Geralt. “What are the chances this troll was a little incompetent?”

Geralt tiled his head to the side. “Not likely.” He didn’t even kill trolls often—most of them were harmless nowadays, simply exchanging gifts from humans for maintenance of their bridge—but some still stole from and attacked humans, like this one. He had killed over a dozen people before they had arrived in the small town and the local innkeeper had begged him to take the job.

“But I feel fine,” he said, looking up with wide eyes. “Do I look okay?”

Geralt resisted telling the truth—“you always do”—and looked him up and down. “You look the same,” he said instead, ignoring the slow thump of his heart. “It might’ve been a new item, and you lucked out.” Sighing, he scrubbed a hand down his face. “Just _don’t_ touch anything else, okay?”

Jaskier shoved his hands behind his back, grinning crookedly. “I swear.”

*

After finding a mage—not Yennefer, thank the Gods—who lifted the curse on the items, Jaskier and Geralt brought them back to the villagers. Jaskier stood off to the side with a small smile, watching as the townsfolk dug through the items.

A young girl grabbed a stuffed toy out of the pile, eyes bright.

“Stealing from children,” Jaskier chided to his companion. “That is just low, even by my standards.”

Geralt snorted, shaking his head. “Most trolls are fairly docile,” he replied lowly. “They didn’t use to be, but times have changed. They adapted.”

“Yes, well, that one must’ve been a bit slow up on the uptake,” he said, earning another snort. His heart blossomed at the sound, full and warm. He barely noticed the child from before approaching them.

“Thank you!” she exclaimed loudly, nearly screeching. Jaskier jumped out of his skin, quickly lowering his gaze to her mop of dark hair. “No one in the whole wide world is as soft as Mr. Bear,” she said, shoving the toy toward him.

Jaskier smiled. “I’m sure,” he said, eyeing the dirty toy with disdain.

But she wasn’t budging, and Geralt surprisingly went with her, petting a hand over the bear’s head. “He is soft,” he concluded, spoken as a simple fact.

Jaskier glared at him before reaching out as well, lightly skimming his fingertips over the bear’s head, following the same path as Geralt’s fingers. But he felt nothing, like petting air. He frowned, trying again with a firmer touch. Still nothing.

He noticed Geralt watching him.

“See,” the girl said with a confidence Jaskier had to admire before turning and stumbling off to her mother.

Jaskier peered down at his hand. Geralt touched his shoulder; he didn’t feel it as much as he saw it. His heart dropped to his stomach. “Geralt,” he said. “I think we have a problem.”

“What?” he asked quickly, then: “You can wash your hands when—”

Jaskier turned, eyes wide. Geralt went silent. “I can’t feel anything,” he said around the lump in his throat, growing bigger by the second. “Like that bear or—” His eyes flickered to Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. “Or that.”

Geralt yanked his hand back like he had accidentally touched fire. “What?” he repeated, that crinkle between his eyes that Jaskier knew—after so long—meant he was worried. “What do you mean?”

He almost whined before remembering they were in public and even he had some dignity left. “I can’t feel anything,” he repeated harshly, almost feeling bad for the way Geralt winced at the harshness of his words, sharp and pointed. He swallowed thickly and forced himself to relax. “I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

Geralt’s eyes flickered to the side, the crease deepening, making him look momentarily older, before—

“The fucking book,” he breathed, eyes snapping back to Jaskier. “It _was_ cursed. Fuck, Jaskier.”

Jaskier nodded slowly, the words setting in. “With what?” he asked. “What kind of curse is _that?_ ”

Geralt shook his head. “I don’t know, but we should visit the mage again. She might be able to break it.”

“Oh.” Jaskier brushed a hand through his hair. He couldn’t feel anything, like he was numb all over. At least he could still move, he supposed. Small blessings. “Okay. Yes. That sounds like the logical thing to do.”

*

The mage took one look at him and shook her head, curls bouncing. “I don’t have much experience with curses,” she admitted sheepishly. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Jaskier tried to ignore the growing dread in the pit of his stomach. Geralt was by his side, a silent comfort.

“You could—try something?” he offered halfheartedly.

She looked at him apologetically. “I wouldn’t want to risk worsening it,” she said. “You might do better to find a stronger mage.”

Geralt was surprised by her words, so used to mages with egos the size of the moon. Before Jaskier could speak again, he stepped in front of him. “Thank you for the honesty,” he said. “For your time,” he added, producing a few coins.

She blinked once. “No, keep it,” she said, glancing between them with that same apologetic look. Jaskier pursed his lips, looking away. “Best of luck to you both.”

Walking out of her cottage, Jaskier buried his hands in his hair and yanked. He didn’t even feel it. “I’m _stuck_ like this?”

Geralt grabbed his hands and pulled them down. Jaskier noticed a few strands of his dark hair stuck between his fingers. “You were pulling too hard,” he said, surprisingly gentle. Jaskier nodded, biting the inside of his cheek.

“We have to find a way to fix this, Geralt,” he said, anger and fear swirling in his stomach. “I can’t even properly play like this,” he added after a beat, realizing the severity of the situation. He closed his eyes with a shaky breath.

“We will,” he heard. “I swear on it. We just need to find a more capable mage. In the next town, maybe.”

Jaskier opened his eyes, nodding. “Okay.”

He didn’t believe in much, but he believed in Geralt and always would.

*

The issue? The next town wasn’t even _close_.

Jaskier sat around the fire, staring at the flickering flames. He couldn’t feel the heat, but he knew it was there. Geralt returned seconds later with their supper—a deer slung over his shoulder—that he quickly roasted over the fire.

He found that he wasn’t very hungry, predictably, but he took a few bites, knowing he would need it.

“We’re about six days from the next town,” Geralt said quietly, eyeing him, looking almost fearful of his reaction. He supposed that was fair.

Jaskier took a deep breath, setting his stick aside. “I’ll survive, Geralt,” he assured him. “Could be worse.”

He nodded curtly. “It was a long day; we should rest. We’ll head out as early as possible.”

Jaskier sighed, leaning back. At least he could still see the stars in the sky, smell the tang of rain in the air from earlier in the day.

*

In the morning Geralt pulled out some cheese and bread from their pack, their preferred breakfast as they both agreed meat was too heavy. Jaskier was feeling a little better, more hopeful in the early morning sun.

He accepted a piece of cheese from Geralt and popped it in his mouth, chewing.

“Um, Geralt,” he said, chewing slower.

Geralt glanced over at him. “What?” he asked around a mouthful of bread.

Jaskier peered at him with wide eyes. “Why—?” He grabbed the cheese, taking a bite out of the block. Geralt frowned, looking displeased, but he just chewed quickly and swallowed. “I can’t taste it,” he said hurriedly.

“What?” he repeated, taking the cheese from him and sniffing it once before taking a bite of his own. “Tastes like normal,” he said, and they were both silent.

Jaskier tried to think through the rushing in his ears, heart pounding. “It isn’t just the—feeling thing or whatever,” he said after a long stretch of tense silence. “I can’t _taste_ anything.”

Geralt nodded, staring down at the abandoned cheese. “We should head out.”

Jaskier was silent, dread weighing him down, as they packed up and set off for the road. Geralt didn’t ride Roach for once, choosing instead to walk next to Jaskier, leading her. Jaskier appreciated the silent show of support.

“What if something else happens?” he asked eventually. His lute thumped against his back, useless.

Geralt stared ahead, jaw clenched. “We have no choice; we just have to keep moving on and hope we find a mage that can break the curse.”

Jaskier knew he was right despite the words not being very comforting. He sighed, scrubbing both hands down his face. “Right, yes, well.” He let his hands fall, straightening his shoulders. “At least I still have my voice, hmm?”

“Small blessings,” he heard from his side, only somewhat sarcastic. Jaskier smiled softly, thinking of how he had thought the same.

*

Three days later, the curse progressed again. Jaskier opened his eyes to darkness, blinking slowly. He assumed it was night at first, but then—“You should eat something, taste or no,” he heard from over him.

Jaskier knew Geralt’s concern was valid; he hadn’t been eating much since discovering the newest progression of the curse. He sat up.

“Geralt, what time is it?”

There was a stretch of silence. “Morning,” he replied finally.

Jaskier moved his head side to side, up and down. “I can’t see,” he said. He should’ve been more upset, probably, but all he felt was numb.

He heard the drop of something next to him; Geralt, he realized idly, able to smell the familiar scent of leather. At least he still had that, but for how long?

“This isn’t good, Jaskier,” he said.

Jaskier let out a bitter laugh. “Really? Tell me more, please.”

Geralt was silent for a moment and the sharp pang of guilt was almost enough to make him want to cry.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” he said with a soft sigh. “I’m just—stressed.” He stared down, though he saw nothing. The urge to cry was getting stronger by the second. He took a steadying breath. “The other things were— _annoying_ , don’t be mistaken, but this is—I’m practically _useless_ if I can’t see. I’m a—a _burden_. A hindrance. I could get you and myself _killed_ —”

“Shh,” he heard. Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut, eyes burning. “I understand you are upset, but we will find a mage to break this, Jaskier. You just have to keep up your spirits a little longer. We’re only a couple days from town.”

Jaskier believed him. He had to. He forced a smile. “Well, I’m ready to go when you are.”

“Eat something first,” he replied, firm but uncharacteristically soft. Jaskier wanted to fight him, stomach heavy and full of dread, but he knew he was just being smart. He couldn’t travel very long on an empty stomach. He accepted the bread and picked off small pieces, eating slowly. The bread tasted like nothing. Geralt packed up their things while he ate, and Jaskier ignored the growing guilt of not being able to help.

*

They did find a mage in the town; Jaskier couldn’t see her, of course, but judging by her voice she was a young woman, probably easy on the eyes. She sounded sympathetic as Geralt—for once—took over the conversation, explaining their situation.

“I could try,” she said finally, “but I don’t have much experience with such… _interesting_ curses.”

Jaskier clenched his jaw. That was one way to explain it, he supposed. A few minutes later, he was led to a room by Geralt and told to sit on the bed. He had to be led to that as well, feeling useless and angry. Geralt was being surprisingly kind, a quiet presence by his side while he listened to the sound of jars clinking together.

He eventually heard a grunt from his companion and turned toward him, following the sound. “What is it?” he asked with a hint of concern.

Geralt blew out through his nose. “Do you not smell that?” he asked in reply, and Jaskier sniffed the air.

“No?” he answered, phrased like a question because—“No,” he repeated more firmly. He tried again, just to be sure. He couldn’t smell anything, not even the usual scent of leather from his companion. He truly had no energy left to be bitter or angry. He smiled at nothing. “The curse has taken something else from me, I see.”

“Jaskier,” he heard, an odd tilt of emotion to Geralt’s usually steady voice, before there were footsteps and the mage announced that she would be applying something to the areas. Jaskier’s hands first followed by his throat and around his eyes. When Jaskier mentioned his nose, a new development, she paused before applying it on the bridge of his nose as well.

He was still and silent as the mage worked, applying the thick (apparently foul-smelling) ointment, before stepping back and trying to find the source of the curse.

Jaskier knew they had reached a dead end before she even said it: “I’m sorry; I just—can’t find anything.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. The ointment smeared, a bit entering his mouth. He couldn’t taste it, and he didn’t much care to know if it was dangerous or not.

“Nothing?” he heard from his side. “He’s _obviously_ cursed.”

“I’m not denying that,” she replied gently, a little hesitant. “But it must be powerful to be hidden so well.”

They were all silent.

“Well, you have to do _something_. He can’t keep traveling like this,” Geralt continued eventually. “Even with my protection, the roads are far too dangerous.”

Jaskier stiffened, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he drew a bit of blood. At least he couldn’t taste it. This was it, he knew, the moment when he was abandoned. When Geralt realized he was too much of a burden.

“You could always leave him here,” she suggested, like it was no big deal. Jaskier wanted to scream. “You can search for a more capable mage in the neighboring towns, and return when—”

“I am not leaving him,” he interrupted sharply.

Jaskier lifted his head, glancing over despite the fact all he could see was the same blackness he was slowly growing accustomed to. His heart pounded in his chest. “She’s right, Geralt,” he said, hating himself. “You would be able to travel faster, and you could return as soon as you find—”

“I am not leaving you, Jaskier,” he said, a little softer. “We will find the solution together.”

Jaskier felt warm all over. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Okay,” he agreed quietly.

*

Later, after paying the mage for her time, they rented a room at the local inn for the next couple of nights. Jaskier strummed at his lute, not really playing, just blindly pawing at the cords. Even if he could see, he hadn’t been able to play properly since losing the feeling in his fingertips.

Geralt sat on the creaky bed. “Jaskier, I think I know what we need to do.”

“Find a capable mage?” he replied quickly.

Geralt was silent. Jaskier sighed heavily, tossing his lute aside.

“Not just _any_ capable mage,” he continued. “You want to find Yennefer.”

Geralt was still silent. Jaskier stared ahead, hoping he was looking in his direction.

“Have you even talked to her, since the mountain?”

It wasn’t a question, really, but a reminder. They had reunited long ago, and apologized (not just Geralt to Jaskier, but Jaskier to Geralt, for not always respecting his boundaries), but Jaskier knew Geralt hadn’t seen Yennefer since that dreadful day.

“No,” he admitted, “but I will grovel at her feet if it means fixing this.”

Jaskier was both warmed by the sentiment and irrationally angry. “Fix me, you mean,” he replied bitterly. “I don’t know why you won’t just leave me here, Geralt,” he continued. “If I wasn’t enough of a burden before, I am completely _useless_ now. You would be able to find her far sooner if you didn’t constantly have to watch over me—”

“You are not a burden, Jaskier,” he interrupted gruffly, and Jaskier pressed his lips together, waiting. “You have always helped me, even if… _unconventionally_.” Jaskier cracked a small smile. “More importantly, I can’t trust any of these people to protect you, not the way I can.” There was a short pause. “Not the way you deserve to be.”

Jaskier wished he could see his face so badly. “I don’t want to be left behind,” he admitted softly. “But I don’t want you to resent me, Geralt. Not after our relationship has finally been mended.”

“I won’t,” he said with a conviction that would’ve been hard to argue.

Jaskier nodded, closing his eyes. “I am just—so _tired_ , Geralt,” he said after a long stretch of silence.

“I know,” he replied, and he could hear the creak of the bed as he shifted closer. “Just a little longer.”

Jaskier sighed. “How do you know that?” he asked with a hint of anger. “How will we find her, especially if she doesn’t _wish_ to be found?”

“Follow the chaos,” he said simply, “and we will certainly find her.”

Jaskier let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You say that about the woman you once loved?” he asked, treading carefully because—well, for all he knew he still loved her. They didn’t talk about her often, and he preferred it that way.

Just the thought of them together made his skin crawl, and he tried not to think too hard about why.

Geralt was silent for a long moment. Jaskier hated it; not being able to see what expression was on his face. Over the years, he had grown quite good at reading his expressions. Now he had no way of knowing what he was thinking.

“She was always be important to me,” he said finally, “but things have changed.”

Jaskier ignored the quickening of his heart. “In what way?” he asked, aiming for casual even as his voice cracked a little near the end, hope swirling painfully behind his ribs.

“I don’t think we should have this conversation right now,” he replied evenly, and Jaskier almost sobbed. “Once you’re better, Jaskier, we can talk,” he continued like every second he had to wait wouldn’t be torture. “For now we should rest.”

Jaskier closed his eyes. “Yes. Rest would do me some good, I think.”

Long after he had fallen asleep, he had dreams—of Geralt, of both of them standing by the sea with the sun on their faces. Geralt’s hand a weight on the small of his back, steady and casual, like it was a completely normal thing for them. The warmth of him by his side, a silent comfort as Jaskier gazed at the sparkling water.

A beautiful sight, surely, but lacking compared to the beauty of the man next to him.

When he was opened his eyes, he wasn’t surprised to find he could still cry.

*

Jaskier knew Geralt had been right about finding Yennefer. They traveled through towns, listening for any hint of her presence. A sorceress that stayed for a few days, gifting the townsfolk with the unthinkable and taking business away from the locals.

They followed every hint until finally they stood on the doorstep of a small cottage. Jaskier wouldn’t have known that if not for Geralt, who had led him to it, explaining the sight.

“A cottage?” he asked again, just to be sure. “Seems a little _quaint_ for our girl.”

Geralt snorted to his side. “I think that might be the point, Jaskier,” he replied before Jaskier heard the familiar clunk of his fist against wood.

Jaskier stood, feeling oddly vulnerable, as they waited. Just when he thought they had the wrong place, or Yennefer would simply ignore them until they left, he heard the door open. He knew they were at the right place by Geralt’s sudden intake of breath.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” were the first words out of Yennefer’s mouth, as blunt and unladylike as ever. Jaskier almost welcomed it; the comfort of familiarity.

Geralt growled, and Jaskier smacked blindly in his direction. “Let us in for some tea and I might just tell you,” he said with a slight smile. Geralt wasn’t the only one that knew how Yennefer worked—at least to a degree. She never backed down from her curiosity or a challenge.

“Fine,” she said, and he knew she had stepped out of the way by the clack of her shoes. “Come in.”

Jaskier hesitated, waiting for Geralt’s help. Finally he was being led through the door and he could practically _feel_ Yennefer’s eyes on him.

He was pleasantly surprised when he heard the rattle of cups. He couldn’t smell or taste the tea, of course, but it was still something to distract himself from the situation, so he picked it up in shaky hands, still unfeeling, and took a long sip.

He pictured Yennefer sitting across from him, likely dressed in dark purples or black or both.

“How did you manage this one?” she asked finally.

Geralt grunted. “You can tell something is wrong?” he asked, and she scoffed, setting her cup down.

“I can tell he is struggling to hold his own cup, Geralt. _Of course_ I can tell something is wrong.”

Jaskier gently cradled his cup. “I picked up a cursed book,” he said. “It was—we were going through the stash of a troll, and I didn’t know about—anyway,” he continued quickly, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t hate Yennefer, not really, but asking for her help was still a task. He swallowed thickly. “We need your help.”

“Obviously,” she replied breezily, “but there is no guarantee I can break it, especially if I don’t have the details of the original curse _or_ the book.”

Jaskier slumped in his chair, already feeling defeated. “But you can try,” Geralt said steadily. “Right?”

Yennefer was silent for a long moment. “I can,” she agreed eventually, “but I will be putting in the effort for him,” she continued, and Jaskier startled, surprised. “Not _you_.”

He could imagine Geralt’s look of hurt, quickly erased. Even if he didn’t feel for Yennefer the way he used to, Jaskier knew he still cared about her opinion of him. Jaskier cleared his throat. “Can we talk, Yennefer?” he asked. “Before—you know.”

“If we must,” she sighed, and soon they were alone. Jaskier wondered if Geralt could hear them from the other room. With his hearing, it was possible. Yennefer seemed to think the same. “I set up a spell; he can’t hear anything.”

Jaskier nodded, a little relieved. “He cares about you, Yennefer,” he said, jumping straight to the point. “Give him a chance, okay? Not—not to _be_ with you, but your friend. He wants that. He has grown a lot since the mountain and I think—”

“Oh, shut it,” she interrupted, surprisingly soft. “I’m just giving him a hard time. He is not the only one to have grown. I—I know, deep down, our fates are intertwined, even if not in the way I originally thought.” She paused for a long moment. “I think the same for us as well, and you and him.”

Jaskier blinked, wishing desperately he could see her. “You do?”

“I mean what I said, Jaskier,” she said, chair scraping as she stood up. “I wish to help _you,_ but first you should rest; I will have Geralt tell me the full story. I can’t chance trying to break it until I know as much as possible about the curse.”

Jaskier was disappointed at the idea of waiting even longer but he knew she was right.

*

When he opened his eyes in the morning, it was to the same darkness and ball of dread in the pit of his stomach. _Except_ —there was something new as well, and he struggled to pinpoint it for a few long seconds as he stared up at nothing.

Finally he realized he couldn’t hear anything, things he certainly should be able to. Like the creak of the bed (it had certainly done enough creaking when he went to bed last night) or the familiar chirp of birds at the window (which he only knew was there because Yennefer, surprisingly, had helped him to his room while Geralt was nowhere to be seen and she had explained everything to him.)

Jaskier sat up and scrubbed at his face, groaning. He couldn’t even hear himself. As if things hadn’t been bad enough.

At least they were here, now, with Yennefer. All personal feelings aside—and frankly some of them might’ve been _a little_ misplaced in his jealously, as he was realizing—she was the most capable mage he knew.

She could fix this. He believed that.

He didn’t hear when the door opened, as he would know later, or when he was surrounded by Geralt and Yennefer, both looking down at him with concern.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked for the third time, and Yennefer sighed.

“He obviously can’t hear you, Geralt,” she said. “We’ll just have to do this.”

He pressed his lips together. “He can’t feel touch, but he knows when he’s being led,” he said after a beat, and she nodded. 

“Well, get to it,” she said simply as she turned away, walking back to the kitchen.

The table had been shoved out of the way and a sigil had been drawn on the ground. Geralt led Jaskier to the sigil and he stood there, silent and unseeing. Geralt almost felt sick at the sight, stepping back as Yennefer stepped forward, narrowing her eyes.

She tilted her head back and forth before grabbing the vial off the table, dipping a finger in the liquid.

“What if this doesn’t work?” he asked again.

Yennefer ignored him, and he frowned. She gently pressed her finger to the center of Jaskier’s forehead. When she pulled back, leaving behind a single black dot. Satisfied, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

Geralt watched, tense. Her voice was soft but steady as she began the chant.

His eyes flickered away from her to Jaskier. He seemed unaffected at first, just staring blankly ahead, until suddenly the corner of his mouth twitched and his shoulders hunched up. Geralt resisted the urge to interrupt. He knew how these things worked. He knew breaking curses was never _comfortable_ , for the cursed or the other person.

Yennefer chanted faster, sweat on her forehead. Jaskier closed his eyes, tight.

The climax was a sudden shout of pain from Jaskier before he fell to the ground, limp and heavy. Geralt rushed forward, unable to stop himself. Yennefer let him, and so he assumed it was over. He dropped next to him and gently rolled him over, touching his face.

Jaskier was out of it, eyes closed and breathing even. He glanced up at Yennefer and felt an unexpected pang of guilt at the sight of _her_. Her hair was sweaty and stuck to her forehead, eyes glassy.

“Did it work?” he asked selfishly.

She seemed unaffected as she crouched next to him. “I hope so.”

He looked away and back again. “I’m—” _Sorry_ didn’t feel big enough. “Thank you,” he said instead, uncharacteristically soft. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d been stuck like that. I mean, not for the reasons _he_ thinks, but—”

Yennefer lightly touched his arm. “I always did think there was something between you two,” she said, spoken like a simple fact of life.

Geralt shied away from her touch. “I didn’t say that,” he replied lamely. She watched him with amusement and maybe just the tiniest hint of sadness. His stomach churned with guilt. “If you knew, why did you…”

He didn’t finish the question, just turned back to Jaskier.

She sighed loudly. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I assumed you would never do anything about it.” She paused. “I won’t apologize for any of it,” she added. “I don’t regret our time together, not as much as you think I do.”

Geralt nodded, jaw tight. “You deserve—more,” he said, just as lamely, wishing suddenly he had a way with words, like Jaskier. “Better than what I could give you.”

Yennefer smiled slightly. “I know,” she said with ease, standing up and dusting off her skirts. “Get him up,” she continued after a beat, nodding at the man. “Put him to bed. We’ll only know if the curse is broken in the morning.”

He leaned down and slipped his arms under Jaskier, cradling him gently to his chest as he stood up. He noticed Yennefer watching him with that same smile.

“You should sleep in his room tonight,” she said, her steady voice leaving little room for argument. “I think he would like that.”

Geralt nodded curtly. “Thank you, Yen,” he said again.

She waved him off. “As long as you two don’t rub noses in front of me, I’ll be fine.”

He smiled a little, unable to help it. He knew she would find someone worthy of her. With a last nod in her direction, he turned and walked to Jaskier’s room.

*

Geralt opened his eyes first, staring at the low ceiling for a second before he remembered the events of last night. Sitting up, his head snapped to the side just as Jaskier groaned, obviously disturbed from his sleep, eyes slowly fluttering open.

He waited, holding his breath, until Jaskier blinked at him and he _knew_ he was seeing him, eyes clear.

“Oh,” he breathed, letting out a sudden laugh. “She did it.”

Geralt smiled, just a small quirk of his mouth. “Of course. Did you ever doubt her?”

Jaskier sat up, tilting his head. “Fair point.” He stared down at his hands, curling them. As if suddenly remembering, he looked up with wide eyes. “My—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Geralt leaned over and grabbed his lute from beside the bed, having put it there last night, knowing Jaskier too well. He handed it over and Jaskier strummed the strings, looking like a child with a new toy, eyes wide and sparkly.

“I missed this,” he sighed, leaning over to hug the lute. “More than I ever thought I could.”

Geralt watched him, chest warm and full. He thought of Yennefer, and how he had felt for her all that time ago. He had loved her, certainly, but the love he felt for Jaskier—because he did; _love_ him—was different. It was warmer, somehow, comforting and familiar.

Jaskier looked up, eyes watery. Geralt reached for him, drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

“Are you okay?” he asked with concern, hand on his arm. “Do I need to get—”

Jaskier sobbed suddenly, tears flowing down his face. Geralt tensed next to him, hand twitching against the warmth of his arm. He sobbed and sobbed, hugging his lute and yet leaning against Geralt’s side. He shifted finally, wrapping an arm around the other man and rubbing his arm.

“I thought you were going to leave me,” Jaskier said through the sobs, body shaking. Geralt wanted to fix it, but he didn’t know how. “I thought—maybe not now, but _eventually_. If—if I couldn’t be fixed, and I wouldn’t even be mad at you because—I’d understand, but I was so _scared_ —”

Geralt pulled him impossibly closer and—

Fucking went for it.

He pressed his lips to Jaskier’s temple, lingering there for long enough that Jaskier’s sobs eventually slowed before stopping entirely. Finally he pulled back, not surprised to find Jaskier’s eyes on him, wide and searching and _hopeful_. Geralt clung to that.

“I would never leave you,” he said, thankful for his steady voice.

He had left him more than once in the past. Never again. He would stay by his side for as long as he wanted him, which he selfishly hoped would be for the rest of his life. His scarily short _human_ life.

Jaskier swallowed before smiling shakily. “I really missed seeing your face,” he whispered.

Geralt snorted. “You should have higher standards for yourself,” he grumbled lowly, and Jaskier let out a wet laugh, leaning heavily against his side.

They had known each other for so long, and yet that morning felt like a new beginning for them.


End file.
